The Flavor of Love
by Jatd4ever
Summary: True, she was but a cook, who could whip up many a dish to insight pleasure to the tongue, but nothing more. Another contribution to the story game


***I don't own jane and the dragon or its characters**

The heat of the kitchen was enough to roast anyone alive. If only she were a man, then she could wear little to nothing, but bear it she would. She knew nothing else. As early as she could remember, she watched the ladies at work, stirring, peeling, crafting. Why, cooking was her self expression, her art, and it had been one of her main passions.

If she were to glance outside her darling little window, she would look upon the shape of her sweetheart. True, Rake was no great beauty, and perhaps never would be thought of as handsome, but what did it matter? In the affairs of the heart, they were just two people who had strong feelings for each other. Still, there was room to be curious. The thought of certain things or certain ones sent her heart into violent flutterings every now and again.

Romance was her favorite subject. The topic of Jane's engagement on the tongues and minds of everyone as of late had only managed to fuel to her interest. Gifts of ribbons and flowers, the nice ladle Jane handed to Pepper, all the competition for the she knights attentions; Pepper found herself jealous. Oh, her life was alright, she had her kitchen, and the sweetest of boys for a sweetheart, but what was that compared to gifts? Was it wrong to feel a little envious?

And the suitors, particularly the suitor, dare she say it? Pepper could fancy him if she did not know better. There were those pleasant to the eyes, those pleasing to the ears, and the ones who were overall a walking temptation in which one would fear to look upon and sin in their hearts. True, she was but a cook, who could whip up many a dish to insight pleasure to the tongue, but nothing more. Nothing more to those who set their cap at the flame instead of the flame starter.

Only, if one hoped, to be someone's flavor.

Soapy water reflected the darkness about her eyes, and the roundness of her cheeks. There was so many dishes to be done. The extra hands in the kitchen had been a big help, but after the evening of the ball, their services would no longer required. With all the roasts done, all there was left was the breads, desserts, and soup. After few moments rest, she was up again.

In a few hours, the ball would commence, and with the unending mouths to feed, there was no time to rest. All night, she slaved away in a hot kitchen, the other girls were not as hardy as she. When they went to bed, she still had potatoes to peel, roasts to tend, and a low fire on her soup. The last few weeks had been hectic, and she was thankful for whatever help she could get. Still, it was not the end to her challenges.

It was easy enough to dissuade the attentions of others, but when it came to _him_ , she found herself being put to the test. Everyday, he sprinkled compliments as though they were salt in an unseasoned broth, and every day, they changed; the broth a simmer, began to boil. Every evening he came by briefly, with the excuses of hunger or drink, always generous with his appreciation of such wonderful dinners. Oh, and every time she had fought with her better judgment, fought to quiet the trembling of her hands, against the beating of her heart, and thoughts of the future. The future did not feel as bright as it usually did.

After the dinner service, when everyone should have been asleep, he had come, and had tried to be persuasive.

Now, hours later it felt preposterous to think she ever fancied him. Pepper's fists pounded the bread dough in her disdain at the thought of it. Algernon, who was very much a gentleman, had become rotten. What would she tell Jane? There would be no helping it, she would have to tell her everything.

Her tears seasoned the small balls of dough. Stupid, foolish girl she had been, to allow herself to get carried away with thoughts of encounters and romance. No, the likes of the peacock, coxcomb, blaggard man as he knew nothing of true love. She shivered in anger. She could not believe the nerve, why he tried to make her like a strumpet, as though she were the child of a house prostitutes.

Even if the cooks future was threatened, she would have to alert Jane, she had the right to know. Never, had she seen such eyes, clouded by the drink, pawing at her, trying to grasp her in an unchaste manner. Unlike others, who would make light of the matter, she had been taught in the ways of Christian women. Pepper, even in her lowly state, would keep her virtue, and maidenhood, until bound in marriage to the man she loved more than life itself. Love, it knows all things, endures all things, love never fails.

Thankfully, her mind recovered better than a burned bread. To cause a great commotion would not bode well with her family, or to enter any sort affair as it were. If it were not for her parents, she would not have made so many good friends, to taste foods which she could never afford, she would had never met her beloved. True, Pepper would like to marry and have lots of children, but she knows that when that day comes she will have to stop working in the kitchens. For the moment she was content enough to dream about getting married and having children.

And there, Algernon stood, trying to contaminate her happiness, and spoil it all. The words which had passed his lips were of defilement. Not even sailors songs were so immoral. She asked herself silently, what would Jane do? Then, instead of allowing herself to become paralyzed by fear, she fluttered her eyes, and allowed him to approach her. The cook knew exactly what she would do.

They backed into a table, and even in his drunkenness, he tried to be smooth. How many a maiden had lost themselves in those arms? How many leaned against a well formed chest,or explored the softness of his mouth? How were they numbered? Who were they? And did they love him?

They probably thought they did. Love, it was not a conquest, a game, or a acquisition. It was in the eyes of a gardener, with a bushel of herbs in his hands, with a softness of speech, and a rose held nervously to his breast. It was the smell of earth, a little messy, a little sweet. Love, it was what made her gardener so becoming, and she would not betray him.

The balance of a spoon should never be underestimated, as well the swift strength of a little woman who carries heavy pots about. He was already black and blue, what was a little more color? Why, she whacked him silly, until he forgot his terrible notions. Perhaps there was a hint of malice for other things she might have heard, but only she would know. Her soup spoon became like a sword, she prodded, and smacked.

Her best knife, she found, persuaded him to bog off further. In his weakened state, who could not destroy him? However, she was sure it was not her duty to carry out such judgement. Instead, Pepper threatened to hold the night's events against him, and to tell everyone of what he had done. In fear of being discovered, he sobered a little and ran off. To be sure, there could have been more drama, but they all knew, it would destroy their reputation.

What was worse, the crime, or the rumor?

For now, she still had room to dream. Soon, the morning will dry up the dew, and bring on the hope of a new day. The sun will come and illuminate the world, chasing away the shadows which hid in the corner. Wiggly worms would crawl, trying to hide from the heat, and gardeners may have to fish them out of their shirts. And amidst the cabbages she would find him, covered in earth, the fruitage of her patience; her favorite flavor of love.


End file.
